


Silence is Golden

by monocularcat (opposablethumbs)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: 2009, I go by many names, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, The fluffiest fluff, poorly snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/monocularcat
Summary: Some things don't need to be said.When Vince catches a sore throat, Howard is all he needs. Well, that and ice cream.





	Silence is Golden

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying with reposting some of my old LJ stuff. I'd love to know if this is something people would be interested in. Not wanting to spam too much, I've compressed this multi-parter into a single post.
> 
> MoC x

###  PART 1 

There is a knock at Howard’s bedroom door. 

No one knocks for Howard. Naboo shouts through the wood when he wants something, Bollo doesn’t even bother with him and Vince just bounds in, usually mid-waffle about Newman, or new shoes or some ‘genius’ thing or other.

The knockee knocks again, but this time Howard’s door opens. A somewhat deflated-looking Vince steps into Howard’s room, looking shorter than usual in his unbooted state. He wears loose jogging bottoms and a shirt that looks suspiciously like it should be hanging up in Howard’s wardrobe this very minute.

“…’ow..rd,” he croaks.

Howard put his book down and examines the sight before him. More than the strangeness of his attire, Vince is free of make-up, skin pinkish and his hair curling and frizzy, looking every bit slept in.

“Is everything alright, Vince?” Howard asks. Vince shakes his head and wanders over to sit on the edge of Howard’s bed, fiddling with the edge of Howard’s sheet.

“M’throat…” he swallows with difficulty, looks like he’s about to explain further then shrugs.

Howard pulls himself to sitting, shuffles next to Vince and puts the back of his hand to his forehead.

“Bloody hell, Vince, you’re red hot.” Howard feels at Vince’s throat gently and Vince whimpers slightly as Howard presses either side of his larynx. “Tongue out,” Howard requests, gripping Vince’s chin with his thumb and index finger. “Say ‘ahh’.”

“..a..a..” Vince attempts. 

“Laryngitis,” Howard diagnoses. “Nasty bout, too. We’ll have to take you to the doctors first thing on Monday morning, get you some antibiotics.”

Vince shakes his head.

“I know you don’t like the doctors, but if you don’t get tablets it could spread and end up as a chest infection and then it’ll take even longer to clear up.”

Vince rolls his eyes, but nods his reluctant agreement. He looks crestfallen. Howard knows Vince hates getting ill and especially at the weekend when he should be out. The sunshine, golden child very rarely takes poorly, other than self-inflicted forms, and Howard hates to see him so despondent.

“Hey, don’t worry little man,” Howard soothes, putting his arm round Vince’s shoulder in a rare relaxation of his ‘don’t touch me’ policy. Vince puts his head to Howard’s shoulder and Howard finds his fingers twiddling with one of Vince’s locks. “Just think, you can eat as much ice cream as you like for the next few days.”

Vince nods once more, cheek brushing against Howard’s collar, nose rubbing along the base of his neck. Vince’s warm exhalations breeze across Howard’s skin and Howard runs his hand fully over Vince’s precious hair.

“You lie down, here, Vince,” Howard says, getting to his feet, fluffing up the pillows and fussing Vince into them. “I’ll go get you a nice bowl of Neapolitan now, OK? Cool you down.” 

Howard toes his slippers out from under the bed and nudges them on, turning to leave the room. He is held back by Vince’s hand tugging at his cuff.

“..ank ..ou” Vince tries. Howard smiles and goes to get Vince his ice cream.

****

A few minutes later Howard returns, a deep bowl filled with pink, cream and brown ice cream in one hand and a thermometer in the other. His pocket bulges angularly and Vince’s brow furrows at it. Vince holds his hands out for the bowl.

“Ah, ah,” Howard chastises gently. “I need to take your temperature first.” He pulls the thermometer from the protective plastic tube and shakes it, peering at the thin mercury line to ensure it is reading appropriately. 

Vince looks at the thermometer and points; first at his mouth and then at his hip.

“It’s an oral thermometer, don’t worry,” Howard confirms. Vince opens his mouth and Howard pops the thin glass cylinder in. He sits back down beside Vince and consults his watch. Exactly two minutes later, Howard removes the thermometer from between Vince’s lips. He lifts it up to the light and consults the reading.

“100.4.” He sees the puzzled look on Vince’s face. “It’s high,” he explains, “but not too bad. I’ll just keep an eye on it. Here.” He puts the bowl on Vince’s concave stomach. Vince sucks in a sharp breath lifting the bowl up quickly, grimacing.

Howard realises what he’s done and puts his hands to the cold patch of fabric, sharing his warmth. 

Vince smiles slightly and lifts a spoonful to his mouth. “Mmm,” Vince hums his thanks but makes a small noise as he swallows. 

Howard watches him. “Easy, now, Vince. Let it melt, don’t try and swallow it whole,” he advises. He fumbles with his pocket and pulls out a little pad. He puts it at Vince’s side, accompanied with a glitter pen.

“You will only make it sorer if you try to speak,” he explains.

Vince puts his already well depleted bowl down on Howard’s bedside table and picks up the book.

' **I can’t spell** ’ he writes.

“Don’t worry, it’s not going to get published or anything. I’ll know what you mean,” Howard placates.

 **‘Thanks’** he scrawls, illustrating it with a smiling face.

“That’s OK. How are you feeling now?”

‘ **Bit better,** ’ Vince inscribes.

Howard looks at the fever-flush in his cheeks. “Still hot?” he asks. Vince nods. Howard reaches over to him and unbuttons Vince’s shirt for him, popping the small plastic discs with surprising ease with his large fingers. He pushes the shirt open, exposing the pale expanse of Vince’s chest and belly, two patches of dark hair, one sparse at his breastbone, one thicker and leading into his jersey cotton trousers. Howard tentatively leaves his hand on the soft skin of Vince’s side, offering comfort, moving his thumb in a gentle caress. Vince stretches, lengthening his waist out under the touch.

‘ **Nice,** ’ he puts in his book and flashes it at Howard, before letting the book rest on his chest and slipping his eyes closed. Encouraged, Howard begins to stroke, and Vince rolls onto his side, the book flopping onto the bed, and he shrugs his arm out of the sleeve to give Howard easier access. Howard spreads the motion up over the ladder of Vince’s ribs, but at the graze of Vince’s nipple, remembers himself suddenly and his hand stills and is removed. Vince makes a little disgruntled noise and wriggles, eyes opening back up. They look a darker, sapphire blue than usual to Howard as they stare up at him questioningly.

Howard fidgets and gets to his feet. He was just trying to help Vince sleep. Yes, sir. That’s what it was. Nothing to do with the feeling like silk as Vince’s skin slipped beneath his palm. And that strange sensation in his chest when his finger tips brushed the dark trail as he lifted his hand? Purely concern for Vince’s condition. He goes to retire to his room, his island of solitude, and then remembers he’s already there. Vince’s eyes are following him as he flits about, picking up things and moving them, quite unnecessarily, to other locations.

‘ **Sit down, y’berk** ’ he scribbles and waves it at Howard, drawing his attention.

Howard’s cheeks go pink as he realises his fluster was quite as obvious as it was, and he plonks himself down heavily beside Vince who moves over onto the far side pillows. Howard rests his back against the headboard, long legs reaching to Vince’s stomach level. They sit and lie in silence for a while.

It’s nice actually. A companionable silence. It’s been a long time since they shared one of them. Vince has always been animated, but of recent times, he has filled every shared moment with a string of nonsense drivel. He surely knows full well that Howard has little interest in what type of heel is in this season or who the newest hot band is. He’s always briefed Howard on it, trying to keep him in touch with the world, but it’s almost as if he has become consumed by it, dragged down into the tabloid sleaze and glossy magazine ‘culture’. And that has led to fights; the banter of old becoming that bit more cutting. 

From Howard’s side, he is venting his frustration that the conversation can’t just be about what Vince has been doing, or what he’s thinking or feeling, but has to be about what others have said about him. And Vince in turn has reciprocated in cruel kind. But still, Howard values his company. He always has. That little smile just between them, the way their eyes meet and flash mutual comprehension of a shared experience; a lifetime together for all intents and purposes. He smiles fondly at the form beside him; Vince’s big eyes again closed, chest rising and falling slowly. Seeming to sense Howard’s gaze, Vince’s lips curl upwards and he leans closer to Howard, long thin fingers wrapping into the slack fabric at Howard’s trouser knee and nose nuzzling into his thigh. Howard’s hand once more finds itself in Vince’s hair, at the back now, moving it off his shoulder, brushing it to one side.

Howard sighs, and in unison so does Vince. Howard’s sigh, however, is filled with resignation. He may as well stop pretending. He needs Vince as much as Vince needs him, but instead of just being now, he needs him all the time. He wants to be there for him, to look after him, to make him cups of tea, to fold his clothes and something deeper. Something that he can’t say, can’t think, because for all Vince’s assertions that he ‘swings both ways’ Howard knows that Vince doesn’t swing to his jazzy beat. That had been made painfully clear on a number of occasions over the years. So Howard just lets it slide, ignoring it as best he can. It’s the root of ‘don’t touch me’; not because he doesn’t like it, but that he can’t. At times like this, when Vince needs him too, he can permit it, because it’s defined and it will be gone again as soon as Vince is better. But it can only be allowed to go so far, just staying within the bounds of what can be justified, however barely.

Howard shakes himself from his reverie to the feeling of Vince’s arm encircling his leg, drawing it closer, and his hand moving lazily against Howard’s inner thigh. Howard coughs, warm and thoroughly inappropriate sparks flaring in his groin. Vince must be sleeping, treating Howard’s leg like a teddy bear or some other abstract form of comfort. Howard realises his own hand is running light circles across Vince’s bare back, tracing round the bobbles of Vince’s spine, dipping lower. Vince’s nose in Howard’s thigh moves, and Howard watches Vince’s pink lips purse and plant a single, soft kiss to Howard’s thigh. Vince peeks open his eyelid and looks up to Howard.

Quite suddenly, Howard is again on his feet, disentangled from Vince’s embrace and backing nervously to the door. Vince pulls himself a little further upright and looks at Howard fumbling behind him for the door handle.

“No,” Vince says, voice strained. Howard stops scrabbling and stares at him, trying to gauge what ‘no’ means.

Vince reaches for his book, defeated by his sore throat. He scrawls something and then throws the pad at Howard, who reads it.

‘ **Stay. I’ll stop.** ’

“Stop what?” Howard asks. Vince beckons him back to the bed and pats at the mattress. Howard considers it for a moment. The point, the self-imposed limit, passed the moment those lips made contact with his body as has happened just once before. The sensible thing to do is to run, make a joke of it or just outright ignore it. That is, after all, Howard’s forte.

Howard hesitates. Vince doesn’t try to make noise, but his mouth forms the word ‘please’ and Howard’s feet move before his brain can do anything about it.

He perches on the edge of the bed and Vince scootches over to curl round him, one hand on the small of Howard’s back the other gesturing for his book. Howard hands it over and Vince settles on his stomach to write, leaning in close, blocking the page from view. The note this time takes far longer, and is accompanied by regular sounds of crossing out. Eventually, he passes the book into Howard’s waiting hands and then turns away, facing into the wall.

Howard examines the page Vince has written on. He can’t make out the majority of the words; they are all heavily scribbled over. In the bottom right, in the lower margin, are small letters and Howard lifts the page to see them.

‘ **I’ll stop trying to make you love me.** ’

Howard blinks at the page, wondering if in Vince’s terrible handwriting he could have misread. He checks it again. And again. And once more for luck.

He spins, twisting in his seated position to see Vince’s back still facing him. “Vince,” he says softly, pulling at the bony shoulder, cooled where it has touched the brickwork. Vince turns over and looks at Howard, eyes large and damp.

“But I do love you,” Howard explains. 

Vince frowns and Howard runs his fingers along the creases on Vince’s brow, down to his cheek, cupping his face lightly. The frown dissolves with the look, the one Howard longs for more than anything; the understanding, the acceptance.

“Re..lly?” Vince chokes out.

Howard nods and leans in over him, Vince’s cheek still captured in his large palm and meets Vince’s parted lips with his own in a small, chaste kiss. Vince’s lips firm against his for a moment, and his hands play against Howard’s solid chest. Then Vince’s eyes flash wide, and he pushes, separating them.

Howard knows… knows… in that instant that Vince’s fever has addled his poor brain cell and it has taken this long for Vince to realise what’s happening. What a hideous thing to do, to take advantage of his best friend in his time of need, confusing platonic love with romantic and forcing his unwanted attention upon him. Crushed by shame and humiliation, Howard drops his head into his hands, unable even to move from Vince’s side with the heavy defeat in his limbs.

Vince gets to his knees shakily and crawls to prise Howard’s hands away from his face. Vince shakes his head, hair tumbling and tickling into the hollow at his collar. He reaches onto Howard’s knee and retrieves the book, writing once more.

‘ **Just don’t want you getting poorly** ’ or something very close stretches across the page. Howard looks from it to Vince, who is smiling his warmest smile, eyes brighter and more focussed than they have looked all day. Howard plucks the glitter pen out of Vince’s hand and in his neat, copperplate handwriting scribes his reply.

**‘I don’t care’**

Vince squints at it, tongue captured between his teeth, vanity and lack of necessity usually concealing his slight long-sightedness. 

Slowly, realisation appears to dawn on Vince’s face and he bounces slightly on his knees. He tilts up his chin and closes his eyes in silent invite.

Howard takes Vince’s face in his hands, Vince’s skin still warm and flushed, lips ruby and smooth.

And, it turns out; some things are worth risking a course of penicillin.

###  PART 2 

“Well, I still think it’s a bloody excuse,” Naboo grumbles as Howard hands over two, week-long sick notes.

“Think what you…” Howard breaks into a cough as he tries to keep his voice anything near normal, “…like,” he continues, recovering, although his words are even more noticeably gravelly than before. “Vince and I…” he splutters again, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to stifle his choke. When Howard’s chest stops heaving, Vince hands over his little book.

Howard looks at the first page and turns it over. He looks at the next page and turns it over. At the subsequent page he blinks and looks at Vince, startled. Vince knows what he has just come across and winks at him.

Howard turns the page over.

A clean page found, he writes the rest of the explanation out for Naboo. Vince reads over Howard’s shoulder of the doctor’s insistence that not only was Vince unfit for work, but that Howard himself, despite his brave attempts at carrying on, must also rest up.

“It’s just bloody suspicious you two getting sick at the same time,” Naboo complains.

‘ **We live together,** ’ Howard writes.

“Yeah, so do you and me, and I’m not ill. Neither’s Bollo,” Naboo observes.

‘ **Alien biochemistry?** ’ Howard suggests.

“Must be. Not like the pair of you are at it, is it?”

Thankfully, Naboo’s attention is drawn away from the pair to the sound of Bollo dropping something metallic in the kitchen, and he doesn’t see the further pinking of Howard’s already rosy cheeks.

“Easy, y’batty crease!” Naboo shouts through, “I told you to use the oven gloves when you’re taking trays in and out the oven.”

“Bollo’s hands too big for silly little gloves,” Bollo complains.

“Well, just watch your paws!” Naboo retorts, sounding gruffer than the words permit. He turns back to his staff. Howard is bustling Vince onto the settee, plumping cushions around them in a mother-hen fashion. Seeming satisfied that Vince is comfy Howard takes to his seat himself. Vince shuffles a little closer, so their hips touch and puts his head to Howard’s shoulder. Naboo doesn’t bat a long-lashed eyelid at them; it isn’t an uncommon display for Vince to ignore personal space, especially Howard’s. The way Howard’s legs splay a little wider, pressing back against Vince’s thigh; now that’s not quite so common, but Vince hides his smile and Naboo doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well don’t think I’m paying you for lazing around. And I’m not manning the bloody till either,” Naboo frowns. “Bollo…” he starts with a hopeful tone in his voice.

“Bollo no can do, Naboo,” the ape explains, poking his head above the level of the kitchen counter. “Bollo no count.”

“You’re an ape that can talk but you can’t count?” Naboo asks incredulously.

“Bollo missed that lesson in jungle. All Chico’s fault. He say ‘let’s not go to maths today, let’s go park instead’. And I say ‘No, Chico, my father expect me to learn to count today’ and Chico say ‘But fit girls in park’ and Bollo say ‘OK’.”

“Charming tale,” Naboo comments dryly.

“Yeah, and worst of it; Chico get all the girls and Bollo had to play on roundabout by himself.”

‘ **Sounds familiar** ,’ writes Howard, showing it only to Vince.

Vince puts a hand to Howard’s knee and squeezes it reassuringly. Naboo’s gaze drops to it and he frowns. Howard’s leg gives a little jiggle, and Vince removes his touch.

“Well, the shop can just stay closed then,” Naboo concludes. “Not like you take any bloody money half the time anyway.”

 **‘Naboo is a nob,** ’ writes Vince, illustrating it with the penile imagery that has adorned desks and gents toilets since time immemorial, lips wobbling with a concealed grin.

Howard takes the pen from Vince’s hands and inserts a ‘k’ in the appropriate place.

“What are you two writing?” Naboo enquires, craning over, trying to see.

“N..thin’,” protests Howard, voice all but gone.

‘ **It’s like being back in school, passing notes,** ’ Howard puts pen to paper.

Vince smiles widely, blue eyes sparkling at the mention of their childhood. He draws a picture of an arse. It was always his favourite doodle back in the day.

‘ **We need two books, one just for you and me, one for the others** ’ Howard writes to Vince. ‘ **I have a spare in my room** ’.

‘ **Good plan,** ’ Vince replies, still staying mono-syllabic wherever possible. It’s not so much that he has trouble with reading, apart from things being a bit weirdly blurry, but he just lacks the confidence to put what he wants. Still, he’s getting better and Howard has been very patient.

Howard moves to get up, but is defeated by another coughing fit. Vince shoves him back down in his seat. ‘ **I’ll get it, you’re ill,** ’ he scolds.

Howard look like he might protest, but the last bout seems to have sapped him of his final reserves and all he does is nod his silent acceptance to Vince.

As he gets to the end of the corridor, Vince hears Naboo speak up, questioning Howard whether wiggling your hips is one of the symptoms of this sickness or if Vince is coming on to someone. Vince can only guess the shade of red Howard will have adopted and the look of relief at Naboo’s following assertion that ‘Bollo just isn’t that kind of monkey, despite what Fossil may say’.

****

It takes longer than expected for Vince to find the book. The plastic bag on the bed with the name of a high-street stationer on the front probably should have been the place to start as opposed to Howard’s pants draw, in retrospect. But the fact that he has been given permission to legitimately poke about in Howard’s room, along with a stuffy head, clouded his reasoning. He got there eventually, though, and that’s what matters.

By the time he gets back to the living room, having first changed out of his ‘public’ clothes and back into his makeshift pyjamas, Howard’s head is lolling over the edge of the low back couch. The book they have been using for the past few days is loosely held in his hand, open at a page with a large sketch on; the one that had surprised Howard a little earlier. Vince chucks the new book on the coffee table. Howard’s mouth droops open as a reverberating snore emanates from his throat.

Vince knows that Howard snores. In fact, every bugger knows Howard snores with the paper-thin walls in the flat, but Vince has known since they started doing night-watch at the zoo. It’s probably all those years playing the smoky jazz basements with Mrs. Gideon and latterly Rudi Manchego, not that they mention him too much. But this isn’t Howard’s normal breathy rumble, it has a rattle and a reedy whistle to it and sounds almost painful.

The other settee is devoid of occupants. Naboo and Bollo seem to have sodded off, probably to Naboo’s room with the fruit of Bollo’s baking.

Vince sits back down by Howard. The Northern lump looks sound asleep, but there is no way that position is comfy; neck all stretched out. Vince puts his arm round Howard’s shoulder and tugs him forward. The snores stutter as Howard flops against Vince’s bony chest, knocking some of the air out of Vince with an accompanying hoarse ‘oof’. He lowers Howard as gently as he can so his head rests in Vince’s lap. Howard draws his legs up, not conscious by any stretch, but stirring, his calves propped over the arm of the sofa. Vince’s hand tangles into Howard’s curls, smoothing them through and coaxing Howard back to sleep. When they’re both feeling better he needs to go at the unruly mop. Howard is going from ‘charmingly dishevelled’ to ‘hobo’ again, and Vince is pretty sure that look isn’t due back in for a while yet.

Howard makes a little mewl, an oddly small noise from such a big man, and turns his head, burying his face into Vince’s flat stomach.

Vince feels a swelling in his chest and not one that makes him want to clear his throat. It’s nice being the one looking after Howard for once. Yes, he’s come to his rescue numerous times but he’s never really gotten involved with the simple comforts; that’s always been Howard’s preserve. It’s… good. But right now, Vince needs a little sleepy too. His head drops onto his chest and it’s instant lights out.

****

Vince wakes up to a terribly nice sensation, familiar and yet strange all at once. Vince Noir being woken up by a pair of lips playing across his stomach; well it happens. What doesn’t usually feature is a moustache. He starts in his seat.

Howard pulls back, letting Vince’s shirt fall back into place.

Vince watches Howard’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows with difficulty, quite clearly nervous at his actions. Vince is pleased to see, however, that Howard hasn’t actually moved; not leapt to his feet, arms flailing like some kind of 90’s warehouse clubber. He’s waiting for an explanation.

Vince reaches to his side to where their little book has started to worm down the back of the cushions, extracting it.

‘ **Felt nice** ’ he puts and holds it over Howard’s face. Howard frowns at it, reaches up and rotates the pad so the words are the right way round. He starts to write his reply, still laid on his back, but a few words in the pen loses its ink. He shakes it furiously and finishes the sentence.

‘ **Then why did you…** ’ the next word is carved into the page rather than being written ‘ **…jump? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?** ’

Vince jerks his head for Howard to get up, Vince’s legs gone numb under Howard’s weight. Howard struggles himself to sitting while Vince writes his response, shuffling a little further away than how they sat before. Vince looks at what he has put. He knows it’s not right but he can’t figure out how it should be spelled.

‘ **Your mustash tickled.** ’ 

Howard’s face softens and a faint smile curls the corner of his mouth upwards. He runs a finger over his bristles, almost proudly.

‘ **I didn’t realise you’re ticklish** ’ Howard jots.

‘ **Yes you did!** ’ Vince replies.

Howard shakes his head. A sly look passes across his features and Vince has a feeling he might regret parting with that piece of information.

Howard rubs his stubbly throat gently and smacks his lips. **‘Thirsty?’** he writes.

‘ **My round,** ’ Vince replies.

‘ **You got the book. I feel better after my nap, anyway,** ’

Howard clambers to his feet and sways dangerously. Vince stands quickly, going slightly into the future as he does, and clasps at Howard’s forearms, steadying him. Vince gestures between the two of them, suggesting perhaps they should do it in tandem. Howard nods his agreement, putting his arm round Vince’s waist. Vince matches the gesture and they help each other to the kitchen.

Howard flicks the kettle on and Vince roots in the fridge. Howard tilts his head in query at him. Vince emerges brandishing a lemon left over from Pancake Day. Howard pulls his fingers into pistols and Vince imagines he can hear Howard's deep tones in his head saying 'pow!'. Howard reaches into the cupboard, scraping tins around until he finds what he needs; the honey. Vince slices two large wedges of lemon, pops them in their mugs and pours over some hot water. Howard mixes in goodly sized teaspoons of clouded honey; part of the Christmas hamper his great-aunty Mildred had sent down last year.

Vince knows that making hot lemon and honey is, strictly speaking, a solo mission but it is more fun doing it together. He misses doing daft stuff with Howard. That's why he’s been trying to fill the times they have together, an attempt to spark the old banter. But he’d constantly stuff it up, going on about things Howard didn’t care about or pulling ill thought-out pranks for attention. Even when Howard was just sat behind his counter and Vince was in his barber’s chair, it sometimes felt as if they might as well have been as far apart as the Arctic and Spain.

At least it’d given Vince time to have a little chat with his braincell. And what they agreed on, other than never to go back to flairs, was that the only thing that really mattered to them was Howard. The ‘loving him’ conclusion, that took a bit longer, simply because it seemed so silly to fall in love with your best friend of twenty-odd years. But if there’s one thing Vince is, it’s honest. He’s a rubbish liar, ask Kathy Rindhoops and his full complement of fingers, and he can’t even lie to himself for too long. So he soon realised that the strange feeling he got when Howard was nearby, that fluttering in his stomach and chest, wasn’t just a sugar crash to be sorted with a few dozen flying saucers.

From that point it was only going to be a matter of time. Vince has a lot of acquaintances, but no-one he can trust with something like ‘I’ve fallen in love with Howard’, so at some point he was going to have to tell the man himself. He’d sit there thinking it over, waiting for Howard to bring him his tea, and planning to say it in with the ‘thank you’. But the brew would be brought, he’d murmur his thanks and then his mouth would start moving and he’d be telling Howard some shit about belts. Then Howard would tune out, go into his jazz trance or arrange some stationary and Vince would kick himself at another opportunity gone.

So losing his voice was almost a godsend because he couldn’t witter. He couldn’t spell half the things he might normally go on about, for a start. He’d tried. He’d looked for an excuse, scribbling out one after the other but it turned out that the easiest things for him to write had been the hardest for him to say.

Howard passes Vince his infusion, warm and sweet as he takes a mouthful, but not much else. Howard takes a sip himself, nose wrinkling a tad and the steam making him sniff. He leans his weight against the draining board counter, looking like even this small exertion has tired him out.

Vince gets an idea. He puts his mug on the side and lowers himself to his knees in front of Howard, reaching behind him to rifle through the cupboard under the sink. He pulls out a three quarter full bottle of whisky and presents it jauntily to Howard.

Vince knows not many things can tempt Howard; interesting bookmarks, a nice red wine and the occasional dram of whisky. The big man smirks down to Vince in that way he has; seldom used but very naughty looking. He takes the bottle from Vince and adds a glug into each mug, purely for medicinal purposes, of course.

****

Settled back on the settee, drink well supped, Vince starts to feel a warm glow that has a little less to do with autoimmune responses. He watches while Howard puts the final, victorious cross in the 9-box grid and strikes his row through.

‘ **You win** ’ Vince writes, and that’s nice, because Howard doesn’t seem to get to win very often. Vince draws a strange, but obviously happy creature for Howard. Howard nabs the pen off him as he finishes.

‘ **I liked the picture you drew earlier. You even gave me a face.** ’ he writes, his script just a touch more spidery than usual.

‘ **Well, you needed a mouth for what we were doing,** ’ Vince replies, looking up from the page into Howard’s eyes.

Holding a gaze isn’t something Howard is very practiced at, but he makes a good attempt before breaking away. His eyes downcast shyly, perhaps regretting his boldness, but they catch briefly on Vince’s mouth on their way. A shudder passes through Vince, centring on his groin. There’s something about Howard’s eyes. Vince may have always taken the mick out of their size, but they are warm, chocolate brown and kind. Vince can imagine kissing over them, feeling the lines beneath his lips, seeing the creases of anxiety smooth away. He’d keep his own eyes open as he moved down Howard’s face, just watching him. Maybe Howard could have one hand in Vince’s hair, or better still both on his arse, massaging firmly…

Vince picks up the red plush cushion and puts it in his lap, twiddling with the tassel at the corner. He tries to make it a casual gesture but Howard notices and raises an eyebrow.

‘ **I was thinking** ,’ Vince explains, resting the book on his cushion.

Howard leans over and writes without moving the pad from Vince’s lap. ‘ **And it does that to you? No wonder you avoid it.** ’

Vince slaps weakly at Howard’s arm and his eyes flash ‘oi!’ quite clearly. ‘ **Was thinking bout us doing what I drew,** ’ he justifies.

Howard lifts his head in a noiseless ‘ahhh…’ before appearing to realise quite what it is he’s in fact ‘ahhh-ing’ about. He turns a hue few men could hope to achieve; a combination of embarrassment, alcohol and infection. ‘ **I don’t think I’m quite up for it at the minute, Vince** ’ he apologises hastily.

Vince peeks under the cushion. ‘ **I am…** ’ he replies.

Howard’s blush darkens further.

‘ **Go on, Howard, write us something dirty,** ’ Vince goads, shoving the pen at him.

Howard picks it up and hesitates. ‘ **Soil,** ’ he tries.

Vince rolls his eyes. ‘ **No, like a rude story or poem,** ’ he advises.

Howard chews at the end of the pen.

‘ **There once was a man from Nantucket, and if it did move he would…** ’

Vince snatches the gel-pen out of his hands before he has chance to finish that one. ‘ **Hangman**?’ he suggests, abandoning the idea for now.

****

' **Bored. I hate being ill,** ' whinges Vince in inky format.

' **Are you hungry?** ' Howard replies.

' **No,** ' Vince sulks. He's feeling rubbish again but it's ages before he and Howard can take any more tablets.

Howard feels at Vince's cheek. ' **You don't seem that warm to me,** ' he assesses.

Vince reciprocates the action. Howard's skin is clammy and burns beneath Vince's palm. Vince frowns, worried. ' **You’re even hotter than me,** ' he writes.

' **Why thank you, sir,** ' Howard winks.

That's enough to convince Vince that Howard's temperature is way up. He pads to the bathroom and wets a flannel, folding it in thirds. Coming back to the living room he places it on Howard's brow. Howard's eyes close and he sighs at the coolness. Blindly, Howard gropes out for something. Vince makes an assumption and wraps their fingers together. For a second Howard's hand pulls away, but Vince tightens his grip and Howard relaxes, as if he's suddenly remembered that it's OK now.

Howard’s other hand pats around before finding their book. Vince realises that that is probably what Howard was looking for all along, and it only makes it better that Howard let Vince hold his hand, because he wasn’t expecting it. Howard de-tangles their hands, needing it for writing with, but he gives Vince’s fingers a small squeeze before he does.

‘ **If I’d known getting ill turned you into the perfect wife I would have stopped slipping you vitamins years ago.** ’

‘ **You’ve been drugging me?** ’ Vince asks horrified.

‘ **You would have succumbed to scurvy years ago with your diet if I hadn’t been around,** ’ Howard defends.

‘ **I feel vi… vyo… violett** ’ Vince abandons the word ‘ **That’s just wrong,** ’ he concludes.

‘ **Hey, I’m not the one who straddles my semi-naked, vulnerable form in the middle of the night, running fingers through my hair, gripping me still with your powerful thighs,** ’ Howard protests.

It takes Vince a little while to make it through the sentence, but when he does he makes a little nasal squeak. Alright, it’s never going to make it onto any of those kinky websites you hear about, but it probably complies with his request for some dirty writing, however unintentionally. He still feels though like he’s missing something though, and he rescans their recent exchange.

Without warning, he pokes Howard’s stomach.

‘ **What’s that for?** ’ Howard demands.

‘ **WIFE??** ’ Vince replies. Howard tracks across the page like he doesn’t understand what Vince means. His eyes meet the word in his own script and they widen in shock. Howard makes a grab for the pen, but Vince fends him off, wanting to put his two-penneth in first. ‘ **You’ve not even asked me out yet and you already have us married off?** ’ he writes, trying to keep the grin off his face in an attempt at indignant rage.

‘ **I didn’t mean it…** ’ Howard starts, wrestling the pen off Vince, but Vince steals it back before he can finish.

‘ **I was only joking, muppet,** ’ he scribbles. ‘ **Just think it’s funny you say I’m the wife when you do all the cooking and cleaning.** ’

‘ **It’s the 21st century, Vince,** ’ Howard scolds, ‘ **I think you and I should discuss modern gender roles.** ’

‘ **You want to talk to ME about…** ’ he studies Howard’s word’s, copying them, ‘ **gender roles?** ’

‘ **Can a man not do nice things for the person he loves?** ’ Howard argues.

Vince doesn’t have words eloquent enough to reply to that so he settles for giving Howard a hug, lean arms round Howard’s neck, ear to Howard’s chest. He knows they’re both too warm for it really, but if Howard minds he makes very little sign of it. Howard is rather comfy-feeling, actually. Squishy in the right places, firm in the others. Vince listens to the sound of Howard’s breathing, the rattle more pronounced this close and he tightens his grip somewhat counter-productively on the larger man. Howard shifts a little and Vince knows he should let go. He’s pushing a bit with all the touching, but Howard is either growing used to it, or is too worn out by being ill to complain. Vince lowers his arms and gives Howard a small parting kiss on the chest. At that precise moment, Naboo wanders blearily into the living room, eyes half-lidded. He catches the last of the embrace and stares at it, eyes snapping wide for a second. Vince and Howard look at each other nervously.

“Bollo?” Naboo shouts down the corridor.

“What, Naboo?” the ape yells back.

“How much did you put in them cookies?”

“Same as usual,” Bollo replies.

“Must be some strong shit…” he mutters, shaking his head and fills two tumblers with squash before retreating back to his room, giving the pair on the settee a curious look as he goes.

Vince makes a show of a silent giggle and Howard sighs with relief.

‘ **D’you reckon I’m going to get the birds and bees talk off Daddy Naboo for this?** ’ Vince writes.

‘ **If you do, can you send him on to me afterwards?** ’

‘ **Doing stuff is the best way to learn,** ’ Vince proposes, leaning back in to fiddle with Howard’s shirt.

‘ **Right now all I want to do is fall asleep again,** ’ Howard explains.

Vince sighs, but knows how Howard feels. ‘ **Sorry, I get randy when I’m bored,** ’ Vince apologises. Howard pats at Vince’s knee to signify it’s OK.

‘ **I’m going to go to bed for a bit,** ’ Howard writes.

‘ **Best go to mine,** ’ Vince replies, ‘ **your room is a tip.** ’

‘ **My room is spotless,** ’ Howard argues.

‘ **Was. I’ve been in there.** ’

Howard’s eyes roll and he pushes himself to standing. Vince sees an opportunity as the material of Howard’s trousers is pulled tight across his rear and gives Howard’s bottom a little tweak. Howard throws a cushion weakly at Vince who catches it, smirking. Howard shakes his head and crosses to Vince’s room, closing the door behind him.

Vince really is bored now. He feels grotty and sticky. His head is pounding. His throat feels like he’s swallowed something sharp. His stomach is rumbling but he feels sick all at once and every time he swallows his ear makes a funny buzzing noise and he goes dizzy. So what does he do?

He turns on the telly and watches daytime scheduling.

****

It’s getting dark when Vince goes to check on Howard. He’s been in bed all day and that’s just unheard of. Vince pushes open the door and looks at Howard, caught in the last light from the window. His long body is tangled in and out of the sheets. He has stripped to vest and boxers and sports a single sock. His face is buried into one of Vince’s pillows, holding it tightly to his chest. His vest has ridden up and his belly is on partial display. Vince smiles at it fondly. No, the big berk isn’t perfect but Vince has had perfect and it just causes arguments over who gets first dibs on the straighteners. And they sell their story to the Hackney Gazette when he dumps them; ‘How Vince Noir Broke my Heart’, ‘Noir’s Ex’s Story; by those closest to her’, that type of thing.

OK, that doesn’t really happen.

Vince knows people won’t get it. He has a hard enough time explaining why he and Howard are even friends. But they just don’t know Howard like Vince does. He’d do anything for anyone, even if he needs a bit of a push sometimes. And he complains all the time that Vince eats nothing but sweets, but he always comes home from the shops with a collection of LoveHearts and strawberry bootlaces that he puts in the kitchen cupboard without a word.

Vince crosses to Howard and sits on the edge of the bed. He puts his palm to Howard’s forehead; it’s still very warm, and he strokes his thumb over Howard’s eyebrow softly. Howard squirms and his eyes slip open, unfocussed at first.

Without their book, which Vince realises he has left unguarded in the living room, they are reduced to gestures to communicate. Vince tilts his head in query of Howard’s condition. Howard wrinkles his nose to show he’s not great, but he puts his hand over Vince’s and draws it down to his mouth, nuzzling at Vince’s palm.

Vince smiles and passes him the glass of lemonade he has in his spare hand. Howard wriggles to sitting and accepts it, sipping slowly. Vince nips out and rescues the book before it can find its way into either small or hairy hands. When he gets back he sits again beside Howard, drawing his legs up on the bed.

‘ **Rough**?’ he asks.

‘ **Badgers arse, but not as bad as earlier,** ’ Howard replies, massaging the back of his neck.

‘ **I felt worst the first few days,** ’ Vince explains. He offers Howard a blue and white capsule; the start of their antibiotics, and takes his own with a mouthful from Howard’s glass. Howard follows suit, coughing a little as he struggles to swallow, doubling forward.

Vince pats him gently on the back, moving in behind him and rubbing in small circles, soothing. Howard’s hunched shoulders straighten under the touch as he pushes against it. Vince kisses at Howard’s ear and feels the vibration of Howard’s heart rate speed. Pleased, Vince trails kisses down the soft skin beside Howard’s ear, into his stubble and down the length of his neck. Howard holds the book up and Vince lifts his eyes to read.

‘ **Still randy?** ’ Howard has written in a heavy script. Vince nods, letting the brush of his hair tumbling against Howard’s neck reveal the gesture as he continues to kiss, lapping at the slightly salty skin.

‘ **Good job I’ve perked up a bit then,** ’ Howard wafts the book to draw Vince’s attention. Awkwardly from this position, Howard half resting on Vince’s chest, Howard twists his head and Vince finds Howard’s mouth with his own. Snotty kisses aren’t generally amongst Vince’s favourite, but it’s easy to forget that as their tongues meet and move together. The sweet taste of the lemonade, still fizzy, clings to their cheeks and masks the flavour of the corn-starch shell of the antibiotics.

The kiss is lazy, both lacking the energy for anything fiercer. Still, Vince feels the heat between them step up, and he moves round, letting Howard lie back into the pillows. He climbs over him, thighs high either side of Howard’s hips. Howard stretches up to meet him again and Vince leans in, his groin coming into contact with Howard’s soft stomach. Vince lifts himself slightly on his knees, pulling that touch away, not wanting to scare Howard off with what’s starting to happen down there.

Howard’s big hands grab a buttock each, much as Vince had imagined earlier, and pull him back close. Vince’s mouth drops open as Howard’s crotch brushes the base of his spine, and he wishes he could swear, never having needed profanity as much as he does right then. A harsh exhalation is all he can manage; ragged and panting, at the obvious hardness he can feel gathered behind him.

That stupid bloody vest’ll have to go, Vince decides. He needs to feel Howard’s skin against his own. As if sensing it, Howard reaches up and fiddles with Vince’s buttons, pushing the oversized shirt from his shoulders. Vince’s fingers wrap into the white cotton of Howard’s undershirt and start to pull it free. Howard tugs at it shyly, covering himself back up. Vince looks down at him and Howard shakes his head. Vince lets go of the fabric, honouring the unspoken request. It’s daft really, Vince has seen Howard with his kit off loads of times; his Hessian costume that showed off his testicles, none the least. But if Howard isn’t comfortable with having it removed, it can stay for now.

Timidly, Howard’s roughened fingertips, cooler than much of the rest of him, reach up and graze across Vince’s small, pink nipples, raising them in a pout. He brushes against the tufts of hair underneath each one, a few coarse black spirals that stand out against the porcelain flesh. Howard’s hands trail reverently down the plains of Vince’s torso, his eyes plainly full of wonder.

It is Vince’s turn to feel bashful. It’s the awe on Howard’s features as he explores Vince’s body – another person’s body – for the first time. He’s looking at him like he’s the single most precious thing on the planet.

And he’s not. He’s skinny and pale and he’s never managed to get a decent amount of chest hair together in comparison to his arms and legs which are stupidly furry. Yeah, he can do the confident thing in public and with his hangers-on, but under Howard’s gaze he feels more naked than any lack of clothes can achieve. He’s exposed to his best friend, gasping under his touch. It is in turn the most ridiculous and the sexiest thing he’s ever done.

But he doesn’t want awe from Howard of all people. He wants Howard to still to be able to take the piss out of his clothes or his general vanity. He has enough people who tell him he’s perfect and wonderful and a prince, or princess on occasion, amongst men. Howard’s job is to remind him he’s not so his head doesn’t go all big again.

Vince does something he doesn’t think he’s ever done. He lets his posturing slip, unclenches the muscles in his stomach and lets Howard see the faint rounding of what Vince thinks of as tummy. It is really just what happens to everyone, skinny or not, once they are out of their mid twenties, but to Vince it’s something to be concealed with absolute dedication. It’s a flaw, a weakness, a sign of getting old.

As pathetic of a belly as it is, it seems to make Howard smile as his hands move over it and this time when Vince goes to get rid of Howard’s vest, Howard doesn’t stop him.

Vince sits back. He’s quite impressed by Howard’s ability to support his weight for this length of time, but then Howard is a big bugger and he’s been going to his jazzercise classes twice a week for the last two years. The two men study each other. Vince puts a hand to the centre of Howard’s broad chest and feels the skin jump with his pulse and the scratching of Howard’s wiry brown hair against his palm.

Suddenly, the most important thing to Vince is to hold Howard, not to worry about any of this shit. They’ve got time when they both feel better to do that. Vince lifts himself free and lies out on his side next to Howard, who in turn rolls to face him. Even if they had their voices, Howard doesn’t look like he needs an explanation, placid acceptance and understanding in his expression. Vince slips one arm under Howard’s neck, the other over his side. Howard presses against him, and emits a low, undefined noise as their erections come in contact, Howard’s thinly veiled in his boxers, Vince’s virtually unrestrained in the loose jogging pant bottoms. He wraps his long leg, the one with the be-socked foot, over Vince, eliminating any space between them; a polar opposite to the ‘never touch me’ ruling he had always maintained. Howard’s arms come round Vince’s waist and cross behind his back.

In their horizontal position, both laid on the pillows, they are brought face to face, within millimetres of one another. Vince gives Howard an affectionate nudge and he feels Howard’s fingers tense as he tightens the embrace a fraction more.

Nice as it is, neither can stay that way too long. Howard is increasingly clammy and Vince, truth be told, really needs to blow his nose. With a single press of their lips together, both untangle themselves. Vince searches around, finally finding their book, the first few pages folded over, in amongst the twisted sheets. He removes the pen from the spiral binding and hastily scribbles something.

‘ **I’m hungry now,** ’ he admits.

Howard pats his own stomach. ‘ **Me too,** ’ he replies. ‘ **Soup**?’ he suggests.

‘ **Ice cream** ,’ Vince counters.

‘ **Vince, you can’t have just ice cream for dinner,** ’ Howard reprimands.

‘ **Soup and ice cream**?’ Vince tries, hopefully.

Howard rolls his eyes but nods agreement and Vince delights at the idea of Howard eating ice cream. Vince can even swap their strawberry and chocolate stripes over so Howard’s bowl is just beige and brown. He reckons Howard would appreciate him reducing the spectrum of colour.

And some things are worth giving up your favourite flavour for.

###  PART 3 

Howard wakes up from his afternoon nap and instinctively puts his hand out to the far side of the bed. It’s not taken him long to fall into the habit of coming round and looking for Vince. Early on in the week they stuck the fold-away guest bed up in Howard’s room. Ostensibly, this was done as they couldn’t shout from room to room if they needed anything, and indeed, that was the initial logic. Rather quickly, however, Howard found himself with an actual bed-fellow. A cuddly bed-fellow.

They chose Howard’s room simply as the door has a lock. Not that they strictly have need of it: Vince has been surprisingly content just to snuggle up to Howard as they write things to each other, reminiscing over old times.

And it isn't as if they are doing anything wrong, quite the contrary; it’s rather nice as far as Howard is concerned. Occasionally he gets the wobbles; a jolt of clammy panic as it strikes him how strange it is, but more because it doesn’t feel it than anything else. It hasn't taken formal agreement but they seem to have decided that it needs to stay just between them for a while. Naboo walking in again... well, they'd rather he didn't.

Howard rubs blearily at his eyes.

“Vince?” he asks aloud and then startles in his bed at the sound of his own, unused voice croaking at himself. It’s the first time he’s spoken since Monday, four days now, and it’s like his body has unconsciously realised that the swelling around his vocal cords has subsided enough to permit communication. Poor Vince, he’s two days further along with this infection and still can’t talk. Clearly, it is Howard’s superior immune system paying dividends. He takes a sip of tepid water from the glass on the side and wonders where Vince has got to.

There is music playing loudly, reverberating with a heavy bass-line through the wall from Naboo’s room, so Howard guesses the shaman and his familiar are holed up inside, most likely off their tits. The magic man and his pet monkey have kept their distance this week, perhaps trying to avoid catching the lurgy. Not that Naboo has very much patience with humans at the best of times. Bollo, usually friendlier with Vince at least, seems to have taken the hump after they refused to drink any of his strange-smelling ‘medicinal’ tea. In Howard’s opinion, no beverage should have bits of cactus floating in it, but then he has always been somewhat of a traditionalist about these things.

Howard digs out the pointy thing poking in his hip; the hardbound cover of their little pad. He looks through it. From the start of the week to the end, it’s quite astounding the change in Vince’s writing, both the legibility and his vocabulary. He still has a long way to go, but Howard is strangely _proud_ of Vince's progress.

It’s not Vince’s fault, either; his difficulties with the language. He’d grown up in the forests of India and there’s not much narrow feint ruled A4 just lying around to practice on. It’s impressive that he can even speak English at all, never mind be able to write it with any aplomb. It's very easy to judge Vince by other people's standards, Howard knows he does it himself sometimes, but that isn't necessarily fair - all things considered.

~

The first day the strange little kid had turned up at the park, Howard had been playing football. Well, the other lads had been playing; he’d been sidelined as the person who went to retrieve the ball if it went out of bounds. One such astray kick had sent the ball over towards the child stood on his own, just watching. As Howard had drawn close, the kid had stopped the ball with his foot and picked it up. Howard had run up to him and the small, thin creature had fixed him with a funny smile and said _‘Alright’_. Howard had nodded and taken the ball from him, running back and throwing it back into play. When he’d turned round the little boy had gone.

It had been drawing to the end of the long summer holidays, so the next day Howard’s mum had taken him shopping for a new uniform. He was 10, just about to go into his last year at Junior School and already going for the gangly look; nearly six inches taller than the bulk of his classmates. Howard hated shopping at the best of times - still does - but that day something else was on his mind. He’d been wondering who that new boy was.

The next day, Sunday, Howard had got dressed early and headed up to the park. He'd had no idea if his friends would be there, but Howard has always been fine with being by himself anyway. And there had always been possibility that kid would be there again. Howard hadn’t really said thank you for returning the ball and he had worried that might have made him seem rude.

Howard had played on the swings for a bit. Then he’d tried to climb a tree because that’s what boys do but had had a bit of a flap half way up and he’d come back down again. He’d eventually settled for finding a spot of grass that hadn’t been defiled by a dog and laying down on it as the sun started to warm the air. He'd closed his eyes and wondered what age he’d have to start shaving and if he could be bothered with all that fuss anyway.

“Alright.” The voice had startled him out of his reverie and he’d snapped his eyes open. Standing over him had been the little boy, grinning down at him. His too-big teeth had flashed in his rounded face and an unruly mop of mousey brown hair had tumbled into his eyes.

Howard had sat up. “Hello,” he’d said. The kid had sat down uninvited beside him, rather closer than Howard would have liked. Howard had coughed and shuffled a bit further away before continuing. “Thank you for stopping the ball for me the other day.”

“S’Okay,” the moppet had replied, brushing his fringe away. Howard had been struck then by the blue of his eyes, like the summer sky above him. “Will you be my friend?” the smaller boy had asked, face open and innocent.

Howard had realised that no-one had ever asked to be his friend before. He had met loads of lads at school, after he’d moved down from Leeds the September before, and he’d hung about with them automatically. But he’d never really taken to any of them; never got the feeling they were _friends_. “If you’d like,” Howard had replied.

The kid had looked at him terribly seriously and had bitten his lip. Then he’d sneaked his small hand into Howard’s much larger one. Howard flinched but didn’t pull away. There was something in the boy's unwavering gaze that had told Howard he just needed something to hold on to.

“M’Vince. Vince Noir. And when I grow up I’m going to be a singer,” he’d told Howard, face still solemn.

“I’m Howard,” Howard had introduced.

“What do you want to be when you grow up Howard?” Vince had asked.

Howard had sighed. His dream had always been to play jazz, even as a child, but he'd not wanted to try and explain that. When he'd attempted it in the past it had never been well received alongside ambitions such as astronaut or racing car driver. He’d shrugged.

“I dunno, work in a zoo or somethin’,” he’d suggested.

“That’d be fun. Could I come too?” Vince had asked.

“Sure, why not,” Howard had replied without thinking.

Just then Hamish ‘Hammy’ Anderton had appeared and clocking on to their joined hands had made an extravagant kissing noise. “Is this your girlfriend, then, Howard?” he’d asked with his stupid, porcine face.

Howard had jerked his hand free, having quite forgotten where it was and Vince had looked at him a little sadly.

“Sod off, Hammy,” Howard had said, jumping to his feet.

“Yeah? What if I don’t?” Hamish had countered, puffing himself up.

Vince was standing too, “we’ll give you one o’these!” he’d gestured with a bony clenched fist.

“Oh, yeah?” Hamish replied. “Oi, boys, Howard’s got himself a little lady,” he’d shouted. Three other boys had appeared like ninjas and Howard hadn’t like where it was going at all. “You wanna say that again?” Hammy offered to Vince.

“Yeah, I said ‘we’ll give you…’” Vince had got no further than that as Howard had grabbed his cuff, tugged and yelled “leg it!”

They had run like fools for ages, Howard with his long legs, Vince with natural speed and stamina. Eventually, Hammy and his mob had given up and gone to carry out activities that would nowadays land them with an ASBO.

Collapsing to the ground next to the bins behind Kwik Save, Howard had panted heavily into his hands, part exhaustion, and part blind panic. Vince had danced about, foot to foot, bouncing with barely contained energy.

“Are you a mentalist?” Howard had demanded when he got his breath back.

“What, them?” Vince had replied, “They were nothin’. You should try hiding from monkeys that want to steal your face.”

“What?” Howard had asked, ignoring his mother’s advice to always use the word ‘pardon’.

“Yeah, when you’re living in the jungle things like that happen all the time.”

“What?” Howard had said again, with the impression the first ‘what’ had gotten him no further along.

“I come from the jungle,” had been Vince’s explanation, like that made everything all alright.

“I see…” Howard had been unconvinced that he did and was wondering if his initial assessment of Vince being a nutter might be on the money.

“It’s another story, for another time,” Vince had winked, like it was a shared joke. “I need to get home. These people that Brian – he’s my dad, I think – left me with are dead strict about me being home for meal-times. They reckon I’m too skinny. Do you go to school?”

Howard had just nodded, completely out of his depth.

“Genius. I’ve never been but they say I have to now. Maybe I’ll see you there.” Vince had darted away, run back, wrapped Howard in a quick hug and then shot off again.

Howard had sat amongst the cardboard boxes and plastic crates a little while longer trying to gather his thoughts before he’d brushed off his trousers and had gone home himself.

Monday was teacher training, and for Howard that meant the time had come to arrange his stationary ready for the new term. He’d spent a productive morning labelling his pens, pencils, rubber, ruler, protractor and compass with all four of his initials. Then in the afternoon he’d neatly bound his exercise books with wallpaper to stop them getting dirty and dog-eared. Later, he’d had a bath and sat watching ‘All Creatures Great and Small’ in front of the two-bar electric heater while his hair had dried. Then he’d gone for an early night so he would be alert for his first day back in school.

All the way through assembly Howard had kept his eyes open, as far as they would go, but there had been no sign of Vince. He'd known there had never been any guarantee that they’d end up in the same school, there were three in the area back then, but he had secretly hoped. 

Just after first break, the teacher had asked for someone to take a note to the Head’s office and Howard had volunteered. As he’d approached the little room, tucked in the far corner of the school, he’d become aware of voices.

“Well, without accurate birth records, we’re probably best starting him in the Infants and seeing how he manages. We can always move him along if needs be.” That had been Old Harris, the Head, Howard could tell from the Midlands accent.

“I just wish we could tell you more,” had replied a soft, female voice “but when Brian Ferry turns up in the middle of the night and asks you to look after his child, what can you do?”

“You can say ‘no’.” A brusque male voice had offered.

“You didn’t say ‘no’ when you banked the cheque, did you Peter?” The woman’s voice had been less gentle as she’d said that.

Timidly, Howard had knocked at the part-open door.

“Come!” had been shouted at him, unnecessarily loudly.

The second he’d got in the room a cry of ‘Howard!’ had sounded, and a hard bundle of shortness had attached itself forcefully around his waist.

“Hello, boy,” Mr. Harris had greeted him. “Are you new here too?”

Howard had been puzzled. “No, Mr. Harris, I’ve been here a whole year now.” Mr. Harris had shaken his head, denying recognition, even though only six weeks before he had presented Howard with his 100% attendance certificate.

“So you know our young Vincent, then?” Harris had asked.

“A bit,” Howard had confirmed, and wished that Vince would stop squeezing him so tight.

Harris had looked at them strangely. “Well, it’s nice to see he already has a friend.”

Vince had looked up then, Howard had realised that if anything Vince’s eyes were even bluer inside than outdoors.

“How old are you, Howard?” Vince had asked.

Howard had bristled proudly and straightened as best he could with another person clinging to him.

“I am 10 and three quarters,” he’d confirmed.

“Me too,” Vince had replied, staring hard at his foster parents and Mr. Harris.

They’d all looked unconvinced, but with no way to prove or disprove it, they’d reluctantly agreed to put him in Howard’s class to 'see how he settled'.

“Will you take him to Mrs. Jones please, Howard, and tell her that I sent him?” Harris had said.

Vince had unhooked himself from Howard’s waist and grinned at him madly. They’d left the room and closed the office door behind them.

“Cheers, Howard,” Vince had whispered in the corridor.

“How old are you really?” Howard had asked.

Vince had shrugged at him. “Dunno, no calendars in the jungle.”

“Do you really come from the jungle?” he’d asked.

“Yeah. It was well good there.” Howard had become aware of Vince’s lip trembling.

“Do you miss it, then?” Howard had asked quickly.

Vince had nodded; an exaggerated gesture. “Yeah.” Then his hand had wormed once more into Howard’s. “But it’s OK because I’ve got you now,” he’d said.

Even with his 10 year old brain, mainly occupied with what would be for pudding that lunchtime, Howard had realised the truth of that statement.

Howard hadn’t liked to upset Vince but there was no way he could walk through school holding a boy’s hand. He’d apologised and explained as best he could. It had been easier to tell Vince he didn't like to be touched than to explain it just wasn't something bigger boys did. Vince had seemed to accept it and Howard had taken him to class. Mrs. Jones had shooed everyone down a seat and put Vince next to Howard, keeping everyone in alphabetical order. As soon as they’d sat down though, Vince had clasped Howard’s hand under the desk and held it tightly, smiling innocently all the while. Howard had known that to say anything would be to draw attention to it, so he’d had to leave it. He’d got the distinct impression he’d have to get used to having his instructions ignored anyway.

Vince had struggled at first with the schoolwork, but Howard had done them a timetable of extra-curricula study, and Vince had come round every night while Howard brought him up to a reasonable standard in English and Maths. By the time they went to the Comprehensive the next year, the only thing that had really set Vince apart from his classmates was his height.

Towards the end of third year it had all came to a head. It had become increasingly obvious that Vince was barely, if at all, old enough to even be in High School, never mind about to take his options.

Just as Howard was sitting down for tea one evening, the doorbell had gone.

“Go see who that is, love,” his mum had asked.

Howard had opened the door to a tear-stained Vince, snotty and burbling.

“What is it, Vince?” he’d asked.

“They’re making me go back to first year. They say I’m not old enough to do my ‘O’ levels.”

Howard had pulled his friend inside and given him a secret hug in the hallway.

“Who's there, dear?” his mum’s voice had shouted through.

“Just Vince, mum!” he’d yelled back, still clutching onto the slender frame.

“Oh, good. I’ll put an extra plate out. He always looks like he needs a good meal, that boy.”

Despite the tears, Vince had giggled. “What is it with people trying to feed me?” he’d asked.

“C’mon, lets have tea, then you can tell me what’s gone on,” Howard had said, letting Vince go.

After tea, they’d gone to Howard’s room, played on his Atari and it had all been made clear. A crisis meeting had been held and it had been agreed by all adults present that Vince should rejoin the first years at the start of the new academic term.

“It’ll be OK, Vince,” Howard had promised. “Plus, you’re less likely to keep getting the shit kicked out of you for being so little.”

“Yeah, but you and me won’t be in the same class anymore.” Vince had looked nervous for a moment. “You’ll forget me,” he added in a quiet voice.

“How could I forget you? You’re my best friend.” Howard had protested.

“So, it’ll be OK?” Vince had asked.

“’Course it will,” Howard had said gruffly, his voice just starting to change. “Left! Left!” he’d shouted but it was too late. The ghosts got Mrs. Pacman.

From that point on, Vince hadn’t fared so well with study. The teachers had clearly thought making him redo the years would help him, but in reality Howard had suspected he must just be bored. He’d started acting out a bit and getting detentions, messing about and spending an unprecedented amount of time with his hair. Thankfully, he’d grown; quite a bit actually although he was never going to reach Howard’s size. By the time Vince had to choose his options properly they’d introduced the GCSE’s. He might have looked like he was supposed to be there, but he'd acted like he didn’t want to be. Howard had gotten himself an apprenticeship at a zoo just outside London after deciding that college wasn't for him. As soon as Vince could leave school, at the Easter before his exams, he had come too; just as they’d agreed years before.

~

For a long time, it was nothing more complicated than that; two mates, looking out for each other and getting into unbelievable scrapes. Howard doesn’t really know at what point the affection became something more; if it really was a matter of a switch being flicked or just something that grew and evolved and snuck up on him one day.

The music from the other room comes to a stop; probably the end of the LP and neither of the occupants of the shaman's chamber can be arsed getting up. The silence is almost echoing as his eardrums miss the volume. Then he realises he can hear something else; the gentle thrum of the shower on the old enamelled bath and a voice lifted over it, singing softly.

Singing softly?

Howard sits up and clambers over the foldaway guest bed that they may just as well fold away and grabs his dressing gown on the way out the door, slipping their little book into the pocket as he goes.

###  PART 4 

Standing now outside the bathroom door, Howard concludes the voice is without doubt Vince’s. It’s a touch deeper than usual, although Vince is no countertenor normally.

Howard is confused, there’s no way round it. Perhaps he’s being a bit mentally slow, but if Vince is capable of a rendition of Ziggy Stardust then surely he’s able to talk and has been for some time? Howard considers letting himself into the bathroom and confronting Vince about it, but that might be somewhat rude, bursting in on the other man’s ablutions. Howard is still mulling over his options when the bathroom door flings open and Vince strides out, slamming straight into the unforeseen obstacle.

“Shit!” exclaims Vince, before his eyes go wide and he clutches his hands to his mouth. He has one towel round his waist, another around his neck and his hair is an untamed, drippy mess of loose curls.

“Y’can talk,” Howard accuses, his voice sounding gruffer and more Northern than he’d like.

Vince shakes his head over-dramatically, clearly trying to assert his non-vocal status to Howard and delving into Howard’s pocket for the book.

“No point pretending,” Howard scolds as Vince goes to write. Vince looks at the paper a moment longer, pen poised above it. He seems to be deciding if to continue the charade or not.

Vince lays his hand flat to the page. He looks up into Howard’s eyes. Howard stares into Vince’s irises; a pale, clear blue this morning – the colour of deep ice. Vince shakes his head again, more naturally this time.

“When’d you realise?” Howard asks, clearing his throat as his voice breaks slightly.

Vince shrugs, and abandons his silence. “Tuesday evening. My mobile rang and I picked it up without thinking.”

And the next one is the big question, the one Howard can’t comprehend.

“Why?” he asks simply.

Vince seems to consider this, his long fingers twitching against the paper. “I figured if I started talking again, I’d end up saying horrible things to you,” he blurts suddenly.

For a moment Howard is shocked still, trying to deal with all the levels that sentence could contain.

“So what?” he says at length, “You were going to keep your mouth shut? How long for? Sooner or later I was bound to find out.”

Vince shrugs once more.

“Y’know me,” he explains “I don’t plan that far in advance. I just knew I didn’t want to go back to being a dick to you.”

Howard is usually the articulate one, but he’s gotten so used over the last few days to having to express himself non-verbally, as well as Vince’s gentle encouragement in the physical domain, that he simply grabs the smaller man. He pulls him, wet hair and all, into his chest; Vince’s nose resting just under Howard’s chin and against his still-tender throat. Howard swallows and his bobbing larynx moves against the damp softness of Vince’s lips.

“Oh, Vince, I don’t think I could cope if you suddenly turned into some little angel,” Howard says. “It wouldn’t be terribly… you.”

Vince tilts his head down and rubs his cheek into the lapel of Howard’s dressing gown. Encircled in Howard’s arms, Vince’s chest rises and falls in a deep sigh. He draws back to look at Howard. His lips part slightly and Howard looks at the dark slit of mouth surrounded by fleshy pinkness. Howard begins to lean in as Vince whispers to him, voice low and intimate.

“That dressing gown bloody stinks, Howard,” Vince murmurs.

The tone in Vince’s voice, and the expectation in Howard’s… mind, means he doesn’t register what Vince has just said to start with. Then it hits him.

“Oi! I’ve been ill!” Howard exclaims, his voice going unnaturally high at the end, voice box strained with his indignation.

“So have I, but I still managed to get a wash every day,” Vince replies.

Howard harrumphs. “You took two showers a day when we were in the middle of the desert,” he grumbles.

“It got well sweaty in that tent. Fancy not installing air con in a place that hot.”

“At least you got a tent. I had to make do with a primitive shelter of hardened dung.”

“You can’t have been that hot, Howard, all you had on was a little loin cloth.”

“And chains, Vince,” Howard reminds, “let’s not forget the chains.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten the chains,” Vince winks lewdly.

“Pervert,” Howard accuses, and coughs as an unexpected laugh burbles up inside him. “I bet they were all your bloody idea.”

Vince’s face cracks in a wide grin. He throws the towel draped over his shoulders at Howard. Howard catches it. It’s a touch damp but not too bad.

“Go get a shower you scruffy old bastard,” Vince advises. “And give me that chuffing robe, too. I’ll put a wash on.”

****

Howard feels better after bathing, but then you always do, don’t you? He pokes a twisted edge of towel into his ear, rubbing out the trapped water, and pads into the living area. He can hear the washing machine swishing, partway through its cycle, and he looks over at it. Vince is sat cross-legged on the lino in front of it, his head following the rotation of the clothes faintly. Vince has changed into skinnies and a t-shirt and is barefoot; long toes twiddling absently. It’s not quite his extravagant usual outfits, but not his pyjamas either. Howard joins him in the kitchen, standing by his side, following the load round with his narrow eyes. He catches himself just as his head starts to dip in time. With every pass, the sleeve of his dressing gown strikes the glass porthole, the extraneous button on the cuff making a clanking noise.

“It’s like it’s banging to get out,” Vince explains before Howard has chance to ask him what he’s doing.

“Ah,” Howard says knowledgeably. Anthropomorphism is very much Vince’s domain.

“Mind, it wouldn’t surprise me if it had got up and crawled away to die the way it smelled,” Vince concludes.

Howard swipes at Vince’s head, an affectionate clip. As he does, his hand brushes into Vince’s soft air-dried hair, none of the brittle Goth Juice or slippery Root Boost in it yet. Howard teases a few strands loose and pulls them vertical, twisting the ends around his big finger. Vince nuzzles against Howard’s thigh, seeming ready to purr at Howard playing with his hair.

A silvery streak in amongst the black catches Howard’s eye and he leans down to inspect it closer. “Vince,” he begins apprehensively.

“Mmm,” Vince replies, his eyes closed.

“You have a grey hair,” Howard finishes.

Vince’s eyes snap open.

“Get it out,” he demands, voice low and grave.

Howard splits the hair down until he has the single strand and he grasps it close to the root and pulls. The wiry, pure white strand plucks free easily and Vince holds out his hand. Howard sprinkles the hair into his upturned palm, and Vince leans in close to examine it.

“How’d the little bastards escape?” Vince demands, “All this bloody dye and somehow the odd one always sneaks through!”

“Just wait ‘til your pubes start doing it,” Howard advises wisely.

Vince looks up to Howard. “Don’t even joke about stuff like that,” he insists. Howard pats at Vince’s head in what he hopes is a reassuring fashion, and secures the towel tighter around his waist to preclude an investigation.

Vince sighs. “M’bored now,” he frowns, climbing to his feet and dusting himself down.

“Bored, you say?” Howard asks slyly.

Vince nods, moving closer to Howard. Howard feels the heat of Vince’s chest concealed in the thin cotton against his bare skin. Vince’s fingers play across the roll of Howard’s towelling, dipping just inside and brushing against Howard’s smattering of hair.

Their eyes meet.

They’re both feeling somewhat better, evidently. The wolfish smile and the way Vince runs a tongue over his canine are testimony to that. Howard is little surprised when Vince grabs him by the hand and drags him to his room.

****

Vince closes the door behind them and leans against it. Howard can feel every inch of his exposed flesh being studied. Vince takes a step towards him and suddenly, Howard is taking a step back. His palms go moist, his head is dizzy. He really hopes this isn’t a relapse; he’s already taken the last of the five day course of antibiotics.

“What’s wrong, Howard?” Vince is asking, but the voice seems to be coming from far away is the blood thunders in Howard’s ears, which is an impressive feat as a goodly amount is also diverting elsewhere.

“Howard, breathe. Breathe from the, err… crotch” Vince advises, holding his position.

Howard hadn’t realised he’d stopped breathing but on further investigation, yes, he’s holding his breath. He lets it out in a ragged exhalation.

“Never bring Fossil into the bedroom,” Howard husks.

Vince shudders at him. “Christy. That’s one improbable three-way nobody needs to see.”

Howard wipes the sweat from his palms onto the towelling around his middle.

“So are you going to tell me why I nearly had to call an ambulance?” Vince asks casually, leaning once more against the door, one foot flat to the wood.

“I…” Howard begins. “I’m not ready for, you know, _the sex,_ ” he admits, whispering the last part like a swear-word.

Vince drops his foot to the floor and stands up straight. “You think I’m just going to jump you and demand a vigorous bumming?” he asks.

“Well, you’re so much more… practiced at this than I am,” Howard protests feebly.

“You make me sound like a right Mrs. Robinson, you do,” Vince teases. Howard smiles a little. “Look, Howard, I know all this is new to you. I’m not going to get you to go straight from a bit of kissing to us having sex. We go as slow as you need, alright?”

Howard nods, relief coursing through him. “So, what do you want to…err… do,” he asks. They are, after all, in Vince’s bedroom.

“Oh, there’s lots of things we can do, other than ‘ _the sex_ ’” Vince grins cheekily.

“Such as?”

Vince crosses to him slowly, behaving like Howard is a startled animal. Perhaps he is, he certainly feel like a rabbit in the headlights as the illumination in his life walks towards him, intent clear.

Kissing. Howard can do that. His arms come around Vince’s back and pull him tighter. There is a contradictory solidness to Vince and Howard doesn’t worry that he will hurt him. Vince opens Howard’s mouth with his lips and tongue and boldly, Howard’s own tongue sneaks out to meet him, sliding over the hot length of moist flesh. Howard pushes harder into Vince’s mouth and their teeth clash. He moves to pull back but Vince mutters ‘it’s OK’ around their joined lips and deepens the kiss fiercely.

A glancing brush, a warmth against cool flesh and a slow friction up his thigh tells Howard that Vince is wandering his hand up under the towel. He is slipping it round, into the inside of Howard’s leg and long fingers stroke at the smoothest skin.

“You really should wear a skirt more often,” Vince offers in panting explanation between kisses.

Vince’s other hand has made its way back to the folded over roll around Howard’s waist and is twiddling with it. With a sharp jerk the flimsy, makeshift kilt is removed and thrown on the bed. Howard's knees tremble and he feels like he might collapse at any second. Vince holds him by the elbows as the big man sways slightly.

“Let’s have a look at the full Moon, then,” Vince smirks, breaking the tension. Howard feel a little odd being stood before his friend completely starkers while Vince still has all his clothes on, but passively allows Vince to examine him.

“Mm,” comes Vince’s assessment. “You’re pretty fit, aren’t you Howard?”

Howard blushes, and in his unclothed state, the flush spreads not just in his cheeks but across his chest like a dappling of ruby sunlight.

He hangs his head. “No,” he replies.

Vince’s fingers lift his chin so their eyes connect once more. “Well, y’are to me,” he confirms, planting a kiss on the shaggy stubble. “C’mon then,” he says.

“Come on then, what?” Howard replies.

“Strip me.”

Vince stands still and perfectly patiently as Howard grapples yet again with the concept. Then, with a low growl, Howard makes his move, dragging the t-shirt up Vince’s long, lean torso. As he lifts it over Vince’s head and up his raised arms he notices the light definition of Vince’s muscles and runs his finger into the grove at his bicep and into his haired armpit. Vince shudders, then giggles as Howard drops the liberated t-shirt to the floor.

“What?” Howard asks.

“Nothin’,” Vince chuckles, “told you I was ticklish.”

“Indeed you did,” Howard smiles playfully back. He can’t believe how much he’s smiling. It’s been such a very long time since he had anything to grin like this over. The thought of chucking Vince on the bed and tickling him ‘til he cries ‘Mercy’ is almost as inviting as the silver button on Vince’s jeans that is winking at him now. He notes the word ‘almost’.

Vince guides them to the bed, and Howard follows. Once the smaller man is horizontal he cants up his hips and, taking the hit, Howard pops the button and lowers the zip, exposing small blue pants. He slips the tight material over Vince’s hips and round arse easily enough but at thigh level, the jeans fix themselves and will not budge.

“Y’have to go at them from the bottom,” says Vince, as Howard tugs futily. 

Howard drops to his knees beside the bed and pulls at the trousers from the ankle, fingers curled into the fabric. The material gives this time and slips down to Vince’s feet, puddling on Howard’s lap. Howard looks up the full length of Vince’s body, realising with a rush that his is face is very close to the full, blue cotton of Vince’s underwear.

Vince grins back at him. “Whilst you’re down there, Moon,” he jokes. Howard is so glad of the casual tones and gentle mockage from Vince. Without it he’d be halfway down the High Street, naked and flailing, and generally getting arrested. He still grimaces, though, at the cocky tilt of hip and the hand placed on it, as Vince postures.

Howard takes a swing at Vince’s thigh, an open-palmed smack. It just seems the most accessible place to chastise him. As his hard palm meets soft skin, Vince strangles out a small moan, and Howard watches with interest how the flesh jiggles in response to his touch.

“Kinky bastard” Vince accuses, voice tight.

“ _I’m_ the kinky bastard?” Howard says, staring up at him.

“Alright,” Vince says as Howard continues to study him, a thoughtful tongue running across his thin lips. “I’m the kinky bastard, but you are most definitely a prick-tease Howard. Get up here.”

Howard climbs onto the bed, unsure of quite where to put himself. He lies straight, and Vince curls, sliding a hairy calf to tangle between Howard’s own. He feels Vince sigh as he hooks an arm around the smaller frame beside him.

“Do you know how much I’ve wanted this?” Howard asks softly. Normally the quiet one, he feel the need to fill the silence.

“No,” mumbles Vince, sounding partway asleep, “’Cause if I had we would’ve been doing it ages ago.” He follows it a few seconds later with a gentle. “Ma-muff ooo.”

Howard tightens his embrace. He’ll try and decipher Vince’s last words later.

###  PART 5 

Vince wakes up first, still clasped in Howard’s arms. They can’t have been out long, the light is still peaking in through the thin curtains that veil the window. It’s easy to blame all this sleeping on the laryngitis and not to think that it might, just a tiny bit, be nerves.

Vince Noir, rock and roll star: he doesn’t get nervous. But Vince, just Vince, he’s the one that bites his thumbnails down to the skin. He should have known better than to think Howard would fall for the bullshit. In all his life, Howard was the only one that hadn’t fallen for the Noir propaganda machine.

Look at him, laid there. There’s no way round him looking like a geography teacher. But that’s fine, Vince has sparkly covered. Howard is still very much at rest, face relaxed and his lips tipped up in a light smile. Vince can only see his face; they’re too close for other part of him to be visible. He’s drawn to Howard’s closed eyes. Beneath the lids, Vince knows the shade of brown is warm and kind. He looks at the fine lines, forming a network in the thin skin underneath them. It’s like a fragile mosaic, split in places by deeper wrinkles.

Some of those creases are from laughter, and some are from the worry that never seems far from Howard. Vince reckons he has caused his fair share of them but he’d rather not dwell on which ones.

Howard’s eyelashes flutter a fraction. “I know you’re watching me,” he mutters.

Vince feels himself go red then he swallows it down and re-establishes his composure. “Not much else I can do when you’ve got me pinned,” he points out. 

Howard’s eyes open slowly. Vince finds himself staring into chocolaty depths.

“I heard you last night,” Howard says.

“You were kinda supposed to,” Vince replies, wishing he had a different topic handy. 

“I just wasn’t… expecting it. I mean, you wanting me to love you is one thing. You want everyone to love you...”

“Hey!” Vince yelps sorely. “You’re special.”

“You’ve said that before...”

“Well you are,” Vince says stubbornly. Howard looks at him, faint amusement on his brow. Vince wiggles. “Are you really gonna make me explain?” 

Howard shrugs, eyes darting furtively. “There’s so much gone on with you the last couple of years. I want to understand.”

Vince sighs. “Well, look, it’s like this.” It shouldn’t be this hard to say this to Howard. “I like girls, I like guys. Pretty people are pretty and shiny and I like being with them. But just ‘cause Shoreditch didn’t judge me the way the other lighthouse keepers did, it still didn’t make me what I want to be.”

“And what do you want to be?” Howard asks timidly. And dammit, that’s the most inconvenient question he could have come out with. Vince muses it over for a while; not the answer per se, but how to explain it to Howard. In the past he might have come out with some verbal spillage culminating in a clothing analogy. As it is, the most honest answer is the simplest.

“Happy,” Vince tells him.

Howard presses a brief, tickly kiss to Vince’s lips. “Are you?” he asks.

Vince sighs and for an answer rejoins their lips. In his mind all his brain cell seems capable of doing is saying Howard’s name over and over again. ‘ _HowardHowardHowardHowardHowardHoward_ ’ it goes. As Howard withdraws his face a little way, the final ‘Howard’ slips free of Vince’s mouth unexpectedly.

“Yes, dear?” Howard asks and then shakes his head at himself and his endearment.

Vince doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, he didn’t have anything planned. ‘I love you,’ is the first thing that comes to mind, so he goes with that.

Howard grins, all teeth. “You said that without laughing,” he observes.

“Yeah…” Vince acknowledges and then chuckles.

“There we go!” Howard praises.

“Oi, I’m laughing at me, not you,”

“Well, there’s a first,” Howard notes dryly. Vince pokes a thin finger in between Howard’s ribs. “Ow! What’s that for?” Howard asks.

“Lemme up, you knob,” Vince announces, choosing not to explain himself. “My arse has gone to sleep.”

“Well, then bed’s the best place for it,” Howard protests.

“And I need to pee.” 

“Ah, perhaps I should let you get up then.”

Howard unhooks the various bits of himself from Vince and scratches his belly. Vince gets to his feet and scoops his jeans up off the floor. As he stands back up, he catches sight of Howard doing what can only be described as leering at his rear. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Howard, realising he’s been caught, blushes in no small measure.“I’ll load my Olympus,” he says. Vince raises an eyebrow at him and Howard’s eyes go wide (for him) and dart about for another topic. “Ah, book!” he cries after a couple of seconds. “Where did you stash the book, Vince? I want to stow it safely for… the records.”

“The records? What are you, my accountant?” Vince snorts, dragging his trousers up.

“Since when did you have an accountant?” Howard asks, sounding like he’s not sure if Vince is pulling his leg or not.

“Well, okay, I haven’t, but the barman down at the Onion keeps a tab open for me; that’s the same, yeah?”

“Bloody hell, he must have a PhD in statistics to keep track of you!” 

Vince shrugs his t-shirt back on and favours Howard with a smirk as his head pops through the hole. “Cheeky bugger. Are you suggesting I drink too much?”

“Vince, how did you get home last Thursday?”

Vince thinks over it. “Did a host of sparrows create a hammock of leaves and fly me back?” he suggests.

“I came and picked you up because you were legless.” Howard corrects. “But that was quite a good explanation considering I put you on the spot.”

“Let no-one say Vince Noir isn’t handy with an excuse,” he quips.

“Just go to the loo, and bring some clothes for me back with you,” Howard tells him.

“Do you really think I can be trusted to pick clothes for you, Howard? You know a cape will be involved. Oo, maybe a cane. Do you have any eye-patches in your room?”

Howard tuts and gets to his feet, letting the pillow go and covering himself with his large hand. “You’re going to make me run naked down the corridor, aren’t you?" he whines.

“Yes, sir,” Vince grins.

Howard gives him a disgruntled look. “That’s just weird, Vince. Sir is what I say. Don’t do it again.” He pulls open the door, checks both ways, covers his arse with the other hand and makes a break for it.

“Yes, sir!” Vince calls after him, watching Howard’s buttocks retreat into his own room. He nips into the bathroom and tuts at the puddles on the floor. How is it that Howard comes across as the neat, tidy one and yet has the capacity to make such a bloody mess all over the gaff?

****

They’re sat having a brew. Vince could almost laugh. It's like nothing has changed even though so much has. Sitting on the settee, tea in hand, watching Colobus; it could be any one of a thousand days they’ve spent doing precisely this. 

What’s different is the casual way Howard has his arm around Vince’s shoulder and is twiddling with the ends of Vince’s hair. Howard doesn’t seem to be noticing doing it and Vince doesn’t mind, even though it’s just taken him 40 minutes to straighten. 

Vince lets his position slip a little, coming to rest leaning on Howard’s chest. He twists his head to rub his cheek against Howard’s soft top. Howard stops his twiddling and runs a single finger down the proud line of exposed muscle the length of Vince’s neck. Vince shudders, a little twist of anticipatory tension fluttering through him as he tries to fight off the urge to straddle Howard right there in the living room. It’s that inconvenient exhilaration when you are with someone you fancy, not being quite sure yourself if you’re about to jump them. 

Vince breathes in. Howard smells like washing powder with his nice, clean top on but also… Vince sniffs a bit deeper. Shea butter and vanilla milk? Coconut? Howard doesn’t use any of the fancy products that line the bath; he has his little bar of beige soap. Vince realises with a start that what he can smell on Howard is himself, all the fragrances that he doesn’t notice when they’re on his own skin. He smirks a little. He may just as well have cocked his leg up to put his mark on his man. Jahooli would approve, but from all accounts Howard has enough trouble with people pissing on him. Shower-gel and leave-in conditioner seem like the future.

The door at the very far end of the corridor creaks open and there is the sound of a small scuffle, accompanied by a stifled giggle and a whispered ‘Gerroff, you ballbag’. The door slams shut again, wafting the sweet smell of special shaman incense through the flat.

From behind the wood comes the sound of a muffled ‘discussion’, and then the door wrenches open again. Vince straightens and both he and Howard look down the hallway to see what’s going on.

It appears Naboo and Bollo are having a squabble over something clutched in Bollo’s hairy paw, slapping at each other like school girls. Vince realises with a sinking feeling that the object of their attention is a small notepad.

“What did you say you did with our little book?” Howard asks out of the corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t,” Vince replies.

“So what did you do with our little book?” Howard presses.

Vince is quiet for a moment. “Left it next to the sink in the kitchen,” he finally admits.

Howard hangs his head. “Bollocks.”

Glancing round at the noise, Naboo spots that he and Bollo are being watched. He attempts to straighten his turban and re-establish his air of sedate mystery but his mouth twitches and he seems to give, laughing and pointing his finger between the pair.

“Oh, you two,” he gasps, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. “You two should give up on the music and be fucking comedians.”

“Are you high?” Vince asks, although he’s pretty sure he knows the answer to that.

Naboo ignores it and wanders listlessly down the corridor to them, his familiar following in his wake. “Bollo, what’s my favourite bit?” he asks, stopping just to the side of the settee.

Bollo sighs and puts on his reading glasses. “Naboo is knob,” he intones.

“No, you hairy scrotum! My favourite bit, not yours!” He swipes the book out of his familiar’s control. “If I grow a ‘mustash’,” somehow Naboo manages to highlight the incorrect spelling with his voice alone, “do you think we might get in knots when we kiss?”

“Naboo…” Bollo huffs, sounding a little irritated.

“Is this for some type of late-night pilot for digital TV?” Naboo directs his question at Howard and Vince, “‘Cause I’d rather watch Magpie Moments than you two pretending to go at it.”

“Err… no, it’s…” Howard begins.

“Just a tip as well Howard; you _can_ go more than four words without a comma,” Naboo observes.

“Actually, it’s…” Vince tries.

“And the pictures! I had to use washing-up liquid on my eyeballs! Tell me they’re not going in.”

“What’s wrong with my drawing?!” Vince cries. His artwork might be stylised, but Naboo never complained when Vince did that big portrait for him back at the zoo.

Naboo fixes him with a pitying look. “Oh, nothing when you compare it to your writing!”

“Now see here!” Howard protests, getting sharply to his feet.

“What? It’s like reading the scribblings of a five year old!” Naboo defends.

“I think that’s a bit uncalled for,” Howard warns.

Vince doesn’t like the way Howard’s fists are clenching. Howard is a big bugger; even bigger when he gets mad. It doesn’t happen very often, and it normally turns into a hissy fit that includes things getting lobbed about. Naboo, out-shadowed by well over a foot is looking up at him with amusement. It’s possible that he hasn’t noticed Howard’s demeanour, he does seem pretty well gone. Alternatively, it could just be that he is confident enough in his magical ability not to care. 

Vince is on his feet now too, and he takes Howard by the wrist. He should put a stop to this before Howard does something he’ll regret. But it’s nice to have his honour defended; very chivalrous, very Howard. Plus there is a naughty little part of him that would love to see what would happen if the burly Northerner did try and land one on a 400 year old extra-terrestrial wizard.

“I think you owe Vince an apology,” Howard says through gritted teeth.

Okay, time to use the time-honoured phrase that echoes through pubs and clubs nationwide every Saturday night. Vince tightens his grip on Howard’s wrist, gaining his attention. “Leave it, Howard. It’s not worth it,” he announces.

“Yeah,” agrees Naboo, “and it’s nothing you haven’t said yourself.”

Vince lets Howard’s wrist go. “What?” he asks, trying to keep the tremble from his voice.

“Yeah, Howard’s called you a simpleton on more than one occasion,” Naboo provides. “Has anyone got any crisps?” Naboo throws himself onto the now vacated settee and puts his curly-trainered feet on the table.

Bollo goes and roots in the kitchen cupboard.

Howard turns to Vince. His mouth is slightly open, ready to speak but not doing so. His nervous eyes are darting, as if he’s searching for a justification. But Vince doesn’t want to hear an excuse, he wants the truth.

Bollo passes Naboo a glass of water and a bag of maize snacks which he opens noisily, attention fixed on the two men in front of him.

“Have you, Howard? Is that what you think of me?” Vince asks, ignoring the audience.

Howard shakes his head, but doesn’t back it up with words.

“Vince, face it,” interrupts Naboo, munching loudly, “you’re pretty but a bit, y’know; thick.”

Howard spins and glowers down at him. “That’s enough from you, Naboo. Yes, I might take the piss out of Vince sometimes but I’m allowed; I’m his boyfriend.” Howard’s brow creases for a split second. “I meant best friend, didn’t I?” he asks quietly.

Vince takes Howard’s hand. Howard looks first at their joined fingers and then to Vince’s face. “That is the most rubbish asking out I’ve ever had in my life,” Vince says softly.

“So you still… you don’t hate me?” Howard stammers out, a pained expression on his face and the wrinkles round his eyes looking deeper than ever before.

“Don’t be a berk, Howard, I’d never hate you. And you’re right, I am a bit thick,” Vince confesses.

“No you’re bloody not!” Howard growls. “Just because you didn’t do great at school doesn’t make you an idiot. You know more about David Bowie than David Bowie knows about David Bowie. And you took all those BTEC’s at night school. Do you have any idea how proud of you I was when you did that?”

Vince shakes his head, dipping it from under Howard’s gaze. Truth be told, he’d only done them because Howard had surreptitiously ordered a prospectus from the college and left them lying about the hut.

“Well, I was; am,” Howard uses his free hand to cup Vince’s chin, lifting it and stepping closer to him, leaving only a small gap between their bodies.

Naboo looks between them. “Hang on, so you two are really… this isn’t for some art-house production? Fucking hell.” He sips some more at his water and blinks, seeming to focus a bit clearer for a moment. “I’m sorry Howard, Vince.” He says, tone gentler than before. “I thought you were messing about and… I dropped a right bollock there, didn’t I?”

“Y’did a bit, yeah, Naboo,” Vince admits, resting his face into the large palm.

“Naboo always shoot his mouth off when he get like this,” Bollo explains, “Bollo try and stop him.”

“Thanks Bollo,” Howard says absently, moving his thumb slowly across Vince’s cheek.

“If it help, Bollo happy for you,” the big ape adds.

Vince looks at the faithful gorilla, Howard’s hand slipping round to thread into Vince’s hair, massaging the nape of his neck. “Cheers mate,” Vince agrees.

Naboo makes a grunting half-snore, head jerking back upright from where it has briefly fallen to his chest. 

“Come on Naboo, let’s put you to bed,” Bollo grunts, dragging the shaman to his feet and herding him away.

Vince turns back to Howard. His care-worn face is slightly more relaxed than before but still burdened, needing to apologise. “I’m sorry that I called you a simpleton,” he says.

Vince nods, showing him it’s okay. It isn’t as if Howard is the only one in the wrong. There’s a lot he’s done to Howard over the years that need making up for. “I’m sorry I spread that rumour that you bummed a fox,” Vince offers in return. Alright, it’s not the most recent thing but he had to start somewhere.

“I bloody knew that was you,” Howard scowls, but softens it with a grin.

“We’re both tit-boxes aren’t we?” Vince concedes.

“Yep,” Howard agrees.

“What’s that pink weasel doing here again? M’gonna be sick in me turban,” Naboo’s voice complains from a distance.

“Serve Naboo bloody right if he did. Bollo told you not to mix incense and Shaman Juice,” Bollo grumbles and a door opens and closes out of Vince’s line of sight, swallowing the magical duo up.

A seagull cry sounds from the television. Vince glances at the screen. “Oo, I like this bit,” he says, rising onto his tiptoes to brush dry lips briefly with Howard's. He breaks free of Howard's continued caress, the one trying to draw their mouths back together, and plonks himself down on the settee. Howard sighs and sits beside him. Vince rests his head back on Howard’s shoulder and sneaks a look at the content expression that seeps onto the big man’s face as he does. He lays his hand on Howard’s clothed belly, warm and soft beneath his fingers. Howard covers Vince’s hand loosely with his own.

“You know Colobus is Sammy the Crab’s older brother, don’t you?” Howard says unexpectedly.

Vince strokes the smooth cotton. “No. Really? How’d you find that out?” he asks.

“Ah, Vince! I was privy to many industry secrets those two weeks I spent filming in Hollywood.”

“Hollywood? You were in a warehouse in Walthamstow!” Vince laughs.

“Yes, on Hollywood Road.” Howard argues. “So anyway, Sammy was brought in to be my understudy.”

“For an indigestion advert?” Vince asks, starting to disbelieve the nonsense.

“I think Jurgen felt sorry for him,” Howard confirms. “Anyway, one day Sammy had been drinking heavily and he told me about how he always felt overshadowed by his big brother. Everyone idolised Colobus and Sammy felt left out. It’s why he pursued his career so ruthlessly and hurt so many people, he just wanted to be loved.”

“Y’know, Howard,” Vince says thoughtfully, “if you’re going to talk such shite you might as well shut up and let me enjoy my film.”

Howard takes a deep breath and Vince gets the impression he may have missed a point somewhere. “You’ve seen it hundreds of times, there’s only a few minutes left. What then?” Howard asks.

“Then I’ll be bored.” Vince shakes off Howard’s bigger hand and pulls up his shirt, casually drawing a circle around Howard’s belly button to highlight the point. He leans down and kisses the skin then drops the shirt and pats it. Howard goes a delightful shade of pink and Vince can feel the extra heat radiating off him. Howard shifts slightly in his seat and pulls a little more slack into the crotch area of his trousers.

They sit and watch the next few minutes of film in silence. Then, as Colobus is returning to the ocean, Howard shifts and peers down to Vince. He presses his lips to Vince’s forehead. “You still know I lo…” he begins.

“Shh!” Vince interrupts.

The narrator orates the closing speech. Vince looks up to Howard. “Yes,” he belatedly answers.

Howard gets his toothy, cheeky look. Vince twirls a lock of his jet hair suggestively round his finger. He knows it’s a blatant ploy but he doesn’t really giving a toss. Howard raises his eyebrow and Vince’s smile widens in return. Vince wriggles in his seat, pressing against Howard’s side. Howard nudges back and runs a hand over his thigh, tapping it lightly. They look at each other and silent agreement passes between them. Howard grabs Vince by the hand and they move swiftly in the direction of the bedroom.

And it turns out that sometimes you don’t need words, written or spoken, to have a bloody good time.


End file.
